Perception
by somethingsdont
Summary: EC. "Ironic, that she'd told him he could talk to her about anything, yet she was the one needing his assurance, his approval, when she knew she had both." Post-ep for 7.03.


**Title**: Perception  
**Author**: Lucy (somethingsdont)**  
Pairing**: Eric/Calleigh  
**Rating**: PG  
**Timeline**: Post-7.03, And How Does That Make You Kill?  
**Summary**: "Ironic, that she'd told him he could talk to her about anything, yet she was the one needing his assurance, his approval, when she knew she had both."  
**Notes**: This was supposed to be finished a few days ago, but school is kicking my ass. Speaking of ass-kicking, my hockey team is kicking some Toronto Maple Leaf ass, which means I'm in a really good mood. Please enjoy! :)

* * *

She hadn't needed the confirmation. Not really.

Hadn't needed it, but she still found herself tossing in bed, mind racing against an invisible timer. Her thoughts were scattered, imprecise, but the common theme between them was obvious. Eric.

She couldn't get the words out of her mind; they were imprinted there. When she opened her eyes, she saw them. When she closed them, the words danced against the inside of her eyelids. _It'd be nice if it were Calleigh_. Even out of context, they sounded significant, displayed a grandeur she felt undeserving of. He wanted her. The words that came before confirmed just how much. Her heart skipped a beat.

Calleigh pushed her sheets aside and got up. She wasn't getting sleep anytime soon, and she didn't want to fight her insomnia any longer. She always lost that battle. She rose from her bed and wandered to the kitchen, hoping to find comfort or a miracle cure or anything to keep her occupied until her mind drove her to exhaustion. There was nothing.

She knew what she really wanted, even if she refused to acknowledge it, even if every fiber of her being was working at innumerable excuses for why her anxiety wasn't because of a certain Cuban. A certain Cuban who had admitted to his therapist that he wanted to settle down. With her. Calleigh. If she'd been an Elizabeth or a Maria, she would've questioned the intended target, but no, she was pretty sure she was the only Calleigh in his life.

She reached for her phone and dialed a number she'd memorized for reasons beyond the fact that they were partners. She checked the time – 12:26 – and she felt a small bubble of nervousness rolling around at the pit of her stomach. Quickly disappeared when she heard his voice at the other end, quiet and maybe reflecting a little of her hesitation.

"Hey, it's Calleigh," she introduced needlessly. She tugged at her own hair. "Did I wake you?"

"No, no," he reassured her. "What's up?"

Good question. She drummed her fingers against her countertop, wracking her brain for something other than, _I just wanted to hear your voice_, which was the only completely truthful answer she could've offered. "I know it's late but do you mind if I drop by?" Immediately, she cringed. If she couldn't even come up with one thing while over the phone, what made her think that it would go over smoothly in person?

"Sure. I'll, uh, I'll leave the door unlocked for you," he told her, and despite how many times he'd done that for her, it felt different now, carried an alternate significance altogether.

She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "See you in a bit."

An hour later, she found herself at his door, hand hesitating over the knob. She knew it was unlocked, but it still felt like an invasion of privacy, like she should knock and wait for him to invite her in. She didn't know when it became this way, but she had a feeling she knew the cause of its onset. Nice to know her defense mechanisms were still intact and functional. She chastised herself for her indecision, and in a moment of fleeting courage, she pushed the door open and entered into his apartment.

She spotted him lying on his couch, eyes shut, and he didn't even stir when she approached. She considered just leaving a note and locking his door on her way out, but now that she was here, she craved conversation, needed to talk about… something. Something she wasn't too sure she was ready to talk about, but considering the gravity of _his_ words, hers hardly seemed momentous. She envied his courage.

She sat down at the edge of the couch, her back pressing against his abdomen, and the warmth he emanated tingled up her spine. She shivered.

Eric shifted against the back of the couch, almost as though to make room for her. His eyelids drifted open. "Sorry, I tried to stay awake for you," he murmured.

She smiled at how domestic it was, how strangely simple it was to fall into place and act the part. "I probably shouldn't have come so late."

He shook his head. "It's fine," he reassured her, using his arms to push himself up. His body brushed against hers in the process; she was surprised to feel so drawn to him, and she fought the urge to push him back down. He scratched his head and nudged her with his shoulder. "So what brings you here?"

"Were you hoping I'd read your file?" she asked quietly, needing to know definitively as a mere means to satisfy her curiosity. She felt him tense against her and felt her heart clench for no reason other than the fact that she shared his emotions, felt them.

"The thought of you reading them," he began, taking a deep breath, "it terrified me."

She frowned. "I didn't know you were—" The words caught on her tongue, meaningless. How could she express the extent of what she felt when she didn't even understand it herself? She willed herself to try. "I mean, I wasn't sure it was—" She trailed off again, frustration beaming through. She looked down at her lap.

He pursed his lips. "How much did you read?" There was no disapproval in his voice, but she detected fear and curiosity and a blind search into the gray.

She hesitated. "I know I shouldn't have kept reading once I realized it was yours…"

He shook his head. "Hey, I don't mind, remember?"

She wanted to shake him, demand _why_ he trusted her so much, why he was okay with her knowing his darkest secrets. Feelings had never been her forte, but she hated the feeling of vulnerability. She didn't understand why he was willing to be vulnerable and exposed to her. Naked.

"You know I can't reciprocate," she murmured, referring to her inability to share some things buried in the deepest crevices of her heart. She realized too late how easy it was to misunderstand her words.

He looked like a little boy being told his puppy had just died, and Calleigh ached for him. It wasn't what she'd meant, but she knew he understood it that way. Sometimes she just wanted to leave her inhibition behind and show him, really _show_ him how much she wanted him too. The idea of becoming intimate with him both thrilled and terrified her, but the latter seemed to have a more potent grip over her. She'd found excuses – old lovers, professionalism, time and place, but when she pushed those extraneous events aside, there was only a cold fear of losing her best friend. Sometimes she felt like it was happening anyway.

She dropped her hand on his thigh, kept it there, shaky. "That's not what I meant," she managed, her voice dry. She searched him for relief, comprehension, but he acknowledged neither her words nor her actions. "Eric…" She squeezed his thigh, and that elicited a slight response from him. "Eric, what I meant was, I don't do that thing you do with trust," she explained quietly. "I trust you, but I can't tell you everything. Not—" She shifted uncomfortably. "Not yet."

She waited. For what, she didn't know. For actions that backed his words, though she already had enough of those to last five lifetimes. She felt him pick her hand up off his thigh, felt him playing with her fingers, and her heart raced in her chest. She considered herself fortunate to have him in her life, but it was only in moments like these when she appreciated just how much.

Ironic, that she'd told him he could talk to her about anything, yet she was the one needing his assurance, his approval, when she knew she had both.

"Eric," she tried again, her voice barely above a whisper. "After my—" She swallowed hard, tried to recollect her thoughts. "After my kidnapping, the department made me see a therapist. Three sessions."

His eyes turned to her, a mixture of surprise and curiosity colored in them. "I didn't know that."

She nodded. "Yeah, I tried to fight it but they wouldn't give me back my gun."

He chuckled. "They know you too well."

"I thought it would be a waste of time." She half-shrugged. "You know, walk in, feed the shrink stuff she wanted to hear, but I ended up talking about my childhood, my father." She paused thoughtfully. "You and Jake." She felt his fingers tense against hers, and she pressed them together with her palms to keep them steady. "I told her that I couldn't stop thinking about how it felt to be held by you."

He studied her for a moment, gauging. "That was—" His gaze dropped to her hands. "That was a long time ago."

"It hasn't changed," she replied without an ounce of forethought. She twisted her body to look at him, then gently pressed her palm against his chest. "Lie down."

He smiled faintly, confused. "What?"

"Lie down," she repeated, hand persistent against his chest.

He obliged, leaning back until he hit the armrest with the back of his head. She shifted closer and lay down beside him; it was a tight fit, but they managed. She cradled his head in the crook of her neck and used the fingers still loosely pressed against his chest to measure the rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and steady but still nervous.

His short hair prickled her skin, but she didn't care. His head was heavy against her collarbone, warm, _real_, and she almost couldn't remember a time when it wasn't like this. There was no need for transition, but then maybe they'd been transitioning for the past however many years it had been. She didn't want to think about that now though. She just wanted to hold him, run her fingers through his short, stubbly hair and breathe in his scent. He smelled incredible, and she had to close her eyes for a moment to allow the rest of her senses to take over.

She felt his hand sliding along the side of her body, up around to her shoulder blades and back down, his fingers spanning across three ribs. His grip was firm, possessive, and she never wanted that to change. He didn't speak, but she liked it better that way, because it meant he understood her need for understanding, accepted her search for acceptance. His breathing was deep and slow; his chest rose and fell, and she could feel his breath ghosting across her neckline.

They remained that way until the early hours of the morning, silently conversing about insignificant events that meant a great deal to both of them. They spoke of the past, of the future, of today, and all throughout, not a single word passed from one to the other. Only when she felt his grip loosen and heard the lightest of snores from him did she attempt to move.

He reacted immediately. "Where are you going?" he murmured, eyes closed.

She smiled and leaned down to lightly kiss his temple. "Nowhere."

"Okay," he mumbled groggily. "Don't."

She allowed her fingertips to travel along the back of his neck, up cautiously until she felt his scar, and she trembled. His eyes opened.

She felt the words roll of her tongue before she could stop them. "It put things into perspective?"

He stared at her, eyes still, until she brushed her thumb across his scar. His head tilted in a nod. "Yeah, it did."

She planted a kiss on the top of his head and suddenly felt a few stubborn tears prickling. She bit her lip. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

He furrowed his brows. "My new perspective?" he asked, to which he received a light nod. "Sometimes, it's just little things, you know? Walking by a homeless person on the street, I'll spare some change if I can, or just even doing my Christmas shopping early to make sure I can really pick out meaningful gifts." He paused briefly. "That's not really what you were talking about, is it?"

She touched his scar again. "No, that's good," she said softly. "I want to know everything."

He inhaled deeply. "Just… I try to do things that I always thought I had a lifetime to do."

"You _do_ have a lifetime," she reassured him, fingers moving to touch his cheek. When he didn't reply, she made a second attempt. "Eric, you're not leaving me."

"I don't want to wait a lifetime to do the things that make me happy." His words were genuine, still cautious, carried with them a firm determination.

A silent tear rolled down her cheek and fell to his skin. He tilted his head, confused, even as she swiped her palm across the droplet to remove it from where it had landed on his forehead. He twisted and pulled himself up so that he was lying on top of her, eye-to-eye. He cupped her cheeks and leaned down to press a kiss to the corner of her eye, where another stubborn tear was threatening to fall.

"Calleigh." He ran his thumbs across her cheekbones, gently, adoringly. "I don't want to wait."

Her arms looped around to the back of his neck, and she pulled him down with a quiet urgency. Their lips met, and it was soft, sweet, everything she'd imagined but nothing she'd expected. She shifted against him, fingertips pressing the back of his skull, but it was still slow, sensual, and as they explored with lips and tongue, he slid his hands down to trace her curves, memorizing the movements that elicited noises of pleasure from her.

He broke away lightly, rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then began splaying kisses down her jaw line, leaving a trail down the side of her neck. When he reached her collarbone, she stilled him with her hands, fingers tugging at his earlobes.

"I don't want to keep you waiting anymore. I—" She kissed his forehead. "Did you mean it?" she murmured.

He pressed his lips to her sternum and grinned. "I don't know what she wrote down, but it would be kind of counter-productive if I lied to my shrink."

She pulled him up to her again, and she watched him hovering over her with a small smile across her lips. "I'm not too late?" she asked, fearing his response even though she knew she didn't have to.

"Fashionably so," he teased, leaning down to kiss her again, once, tenderly. He left it there. "Are you staying 'til morning?"

She chuckled. "What kind of girl do you think I am?" she whispered playfully.

He laughed and kissed her again. "So that's a yes?"

She nodded, writhing under his weight. "It's almost morning anyway."

He adjusted to shift some weight to his limbs. "I would invite you to bed for some sleep…"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Just sleep?"

He smiled. "What kind of girl do I think you are?" he teased.

She pushed against his chest, ignoring his question with purpose. "Lead the way."

He didn't hesitate, climbed up from the couch and found her hand. Without another word, he brought her to his bedroom; if he was nervous, he didn't show it. They climbed in, fully clothed, and they held each other under the sheets, her a little tighter than necessary for all the misery she'd caused him.

"Eric?"

His response was slow, sleepy. "Hm?"

She smiled. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

He peered at her from behind heavy lids and chuckled. "Tomorrow, baby. Tomorrow."

There were some things that _could_ wait. They did have a lifetime, after all.


End file.
